


Safe

by Waywardwiz



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: M/M, have some love and soft boys being soft together, so here, there are way too few LockBell fics out there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 19:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13841139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywardwiz/pseuds/Waywardwiz
Summary: Marcus gets kidnapped, Sherlock saves him, followed by some soul-searching, some confessions of feelings, and also blow jobs." “you scared me” Sherlock says, his voice thin and earnest, so entirely unlike him, and Marcus inhales sharply – it’s a heady rush to know that someone cares for him like this. Yet it is also a tremendous responsibility because now he has someone new that he needs to keep himself safe for. He turns the two of them around with a powerful shove against the madras so that he is hovering over Sherlock, barring him in with his arms and legs, and he feels somehow strong and vulnerable at the same time. Intertwining his fingers with Sherlock’s and pressing their joined hands into the pillow next to Sherlock’s head, he leans down so that their foreheads touch. He murmurs into his hairline, tasting salt on Sherlock’s sweat damp skin, “I’m sorry. But I’m fine. We’re fine”."





	Safe

”Fuck, I think I’m in love with you – ”  
“I know, I know”  
“Of course you do, you’re ridiculous, you should have told me”  
“I should have told you that you are in love with me?”  
“Yes, jackass”  
Sherlock bites into the crock between Marcus’ neck and shoulder, _hard_ , pointy incisors marking sensitive skin, and Marcus gasps and bucks up against him. Sherlock hisses, a strained little sound, and Marcus drinks it through his pores, tastes it like the air after a lightning strike. He closes his eyes for the briefest of moments, overwhelmed by the sensation of a warm, subtle body against his own. Sherlock is everywhere. He is slippery as a fish, his hands stroking and squeezing and brushing against every delicate part of Marcus, awakening things in him that has up until now lied dormant. Sherlock peppers a myriad of kisses unto his throat, jaw, cheeks, lips, and Marcus cradles Sherlock’s face between his palms and lures kiss after greedy kiss from him. He is insatiable. _Why have we waited this long?_ He presses his mouth to the other man’s temple, convinced that he can hear that gorgeous brain working inside the confinement of his skull, and babbles a string of sappy confessions, “God, you look beautiful like this”  
Sherlock is always beautiful, but right now he is exquisite; his naked form is a symphony of long, slender lines and delicate grace, a miracle of synapses and nerves and muscles bunched beneath pale skin.

“you scared me” Sherlock says, his voice thin and earnest, so entirely unlike him, and Marcus inhales sharply – it’s a heady rush to know that someone cares for him like this. Yet it is also a tremendous responsibility because now he has someone new that he needs to keep himself safe for. He turns the two of them around with a powerful shove against the madras so that he is hovering over Sherlock, barring him in with his arms and legs, and he feels somehow strong and vulnerable at the same time. Intertwining his fingers with Sherlock’s and pressing their joined hands into the pillow next to Sherlock’s head, he leans down so that their foreheads touch. He murmurs into his hairline, tasting salt on Sherlock’s sweat damp skin, “I’m sorry. But I’m fine. We’re fine”.

Truth is they aren’t fine. They almost died. For Marcus, imminent danger is part of the job, but Sherlock – Sherlock, whose addiction turned him into a wreck, whose sobriety put him back together piece by battered piece, whose experiences have given him keen senses and made him street-smart - has never been made to look as a person he loves has the barrel of a gun pressed to the side of his head. Has never been told that him being unable to solve a puzzle in time would be the direct cause of that person’s death. Both things happened tonight.

\------------------------------------

Marcus had been kidnapped. In retrospect that fact annoys him greatly – he is a detective after all, he is not supposed to be caught unaware like that, not ever. He had been taken on the way home from work; hand clamped over his mouth so he couldn’t yell for help, a punch to the stomach sending pain racing up and down his body, something wrapped around his wrists, restricting his movement. When he couldn’t use his arms to defend himself he tried kicking at his assailants, but his hands tied behind him skewed with his balance and he came tumbling to the ground instead.  
The last thing he remembered before being knocked out was attempting to bite off one of the fingers closed around his jaw and being slapped in the face so hard that his head snapped to the side. That, and a voice speaking, “we’ve got the cop, now call Holmes”.  
Then Marcus’ world plummeted into darkness.

He had come to some time later, and the first thing he noticed was Sherlock. Sherlock on his knees, hands balled tightly by his side, wiry body pulled taut with nervous energy. He drew in a pained breath when he saw Marcus blinking into wakefulness. The second thing he noticed was the gun pressed into his temple.  
There was a safe, a safe with some sort of crazy riddle, something with math – Marcus was a little fuzzy on the details, he hadn’t been fully present – that the thieves needed Sherlock to solve. Like any self-respecting criminal they had offered him an ultimatum – solve the puzzle or the cop dies. Thing is, Sherlock couldn’t solve it. He tried, he tried and he tried, shifting through every possible solution, and the wrong answers piled up around him, while their assailants flung scathing remarks at him - “do you want your friend to die? Hurry up, or you can scrape his brain off of the floor”.  
“Sherlock, focus” Marcus had gasped, straining against the ties that bound him, “breathe”.  
Sherlock had looked away from the dial of the safe and up at Marcus. His eyes were dull with terror and his skin was clammy, but he had nodded, eyebrows drawing together in determination and defiance. The metal had been cold against Marcus’ forehead and the man who held him at gunpoint had been breathing harshly against the back of his head. But Marcus hadn’t been afraid. Not even for a second. Sherlock would get it. He always did.

Sherlock had indeed succeeded in opening the safe, but the thieves hadn’t had the chance to enjoy their loot – diamonds, so many diamonds – before Gregson and his team came bursting through the door.  
They had gone to the hospital after. Gregson had insisted, even though there was nothing wrong with them apart from a few nasty bruises and a sore jaw on Marcus and one hell of a fright for Sherlock. They had called Joan, who came and did a check-up of her own. She had taken Sherlock’s wrist gently, asking him if he wanted to go to the Brownstone. Sherlock had shaken his head. Looked at Marcus. Said; “can I come with you?”  
And Marcus brought him home.

\-------------------------------------

It had seemed natural to go to bed together when they arrived at Marcus’ apartment. They hadn’t even discussed it, had just shared a long, loaded moment and then fallen into each other like planets spinning into the same orbit. And now here they are. Alive and well, tugged away in Marcus’ bedroom, arms and legs tangled, breaths mingling, soft assurances whispered into the air between them. Marcus makes his way down Sherlock’s body, scattering bites and kisses. Sherlock whines and buries his fingers in his coarse, dark hair when he closes his lips around one of his nipples and starts, nibbling and sucking the tender skin.  
“I’m so glad you’re safe” Marcus murmurs, tongue lapping at Sherlock’s chest. One of his hands is curled protectively around Sherlock’s wrist and the other is allowed to roam free over the slim expanse of the detective’s body. He soon reaches the top of Sherlock’ briefs and carefully dips the tips of his fingers under the fabric.  
“Is this okay?” he asks, releasing Sherlock’s nipple and angling his head back so he can look at Sherlock properly. He then does a double take, because Sherlock is smiling, studying him like he has seen something curious and lovely. When he speaks his voice is soft, and there is a sort of unassuming kindness in his eyes that only he is capable of, “it’s okay”. He swallows, then adds, voice growing in strength, “please”  
“alright” Marcus says with a smile of his own, “good”  
He doesn’t know when the mood shifted from sexually charged to this easy intimacy, but he finds that he likes it.

Sitting up on his knees he gently eases Sherlock’s underwear down his thighs and legs, throwing them into a corner, and when he looks back, Sherlock is lying in front of him gloriously naked. His cock is long and thin and settled in dark curls, and Marcus’ fingers are itching to reach out and touch it. He wants to take Sherlock in his hand, in his mouth, inside him – whatever Sherlock wants – and make him forget all the bad things they have just been through. Sherlock’s cheeks are flushed, and his chest is rising and falling with every hectic heartbeat. Marcus can’t help himself – he dives in and presses his ear to Sherlock’s chest, seeking out that elusively small, yet sturdy sound that means that its’ owner is alive. Sherlock is alive, so very alive, and Marcus breathes a sigh of relief. Then Sherlock ruins the sombreness of the moment by laughing hoarsely. Marcus feels it like a small vibration against his cheek and his own heart is light and trembling in just the right way.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, a thread of amusement softening his lilting London accent, “is this foreplay?”  
“I just… I wanted to make sure” Marcus says. He absentmindedly traces Sherlock’s tattoos with his hands. They are eclectic and distinct, much like the man himself.  
Sherlock grabbles for him, desperation making his movements jerky, and Marcus willingly lets himself be tugged into the space between the other man’s arms. Sherlock embraces him, long limps fitting effortlessly between Marcus’ shorter, more muscular ones, and asks, tone pitched into a vulnerable timbre, “And?”  
“you’re good” Marcus says, his eyes slipping shut, lashes fanning out over the skin protecting Sherlock’s jugular. He nuzzles Sherlock’s jaw with his nose, an almost blissful smile on his face when Sherlock digs his fingers into his hair and gently twines the soft strands around them.  
“Marcus” Sherlock says, words tight with emotions, “What do you want?”  
Desire curls like a ball of heat in the pit of Marcus’s stomach, as the blood that was probably supposed to go power his brain rushes downward to his groin. Sherlock is looking at him like he is perfect, his wonderful violinist fingers brushing languidly over Marcus. Sometimes one of his hands dip down and rests against his abdomen, fingers reaching lower in a teasing, tantalizing, unbearable proposition. Marcus is still wearing his underwear. They should remedy that.

“Can I suck you?” he asks. This is strange and new, and he had never in his wildest dreams imagined that he would get to ask Sherlock’s permission to give him a blowjob.  
He stammers, unable to banish the thought that has suddenly, unwittingly, popped into his head, completely, “I mean, I’m sure you’re into some more hardcore stuff, but – “  
Sherlock cuts him off with a finger pressed against his lips. He smiles and shakes his head, like Marcus has gotten it all wrong, and he is going to steer him onto the right track, “where did you hear that?”  
Marcus’ cheeks glow with heat and he is greatly relieved that the darkness of his skin prevents his blush from being too apparent.

“I met one of your... friends. When I visited the Brownstone to hand you a casefile. They were just leaving”  
“They?”  
“Blonde hair, tattoo of a rose on their face, kind of an over-sharer. Seemed androgynous. I didn’t want to assume anything” Marcus explains. He is starting to become distracted by Sherlock’s hands making slow circles against his belly.  
“Well...” says Sherlock evenly, eyes following the trail of his fingers as they find their way beneath the hem of Marcus’ briefs. He brushes against the delicate skin at the base of Marcus’ cock, then draws back when Marcus groans, a deep sound forcing its’ way up his throat.  
“ _He_ wasn’t wrong. But not entirely correct, either”. He looks up then, so as to meet Marcus’ gaze, “depends on who I’m with. And right now...”  
He curls his left hand’s long finger around the nape of Marcus’ neck and coaxes him into a kiss. They share a long silence, one that is both confusing and thrilling, and then Sherlock says, voice barely more than a whisper, toe-curling and tender, “I’m with you”.

Marcus tries to breathe around the lump in his throat, and exhales slowly.  
“That you are”  
Sherlock points to his briefs, raising an eyebrow in a gesture of nonchalance, “how about we get you out of those?”  
Marcus nods shakily and edges to the side of the bed, where he stands and shimmies out of the offending garment.  
He then sinks down on his knees, grabs the other man by the hips and takes him into his mouth. Sherlock cries out in surprise and his legs give out from under him. He falls back on the madras, never mind that Marcus is still holding unto him at the waist, and flings his head back in utter abandon. Marcus smiles around him, relishing the weight of Sherlock’s erection resting hot and heavy on his tongue. He knows that he is good with his mouth – at least based on the feedback he has received through the years, and now on the fact that Sherlock is writhing and moaning shamelessly beneath his hands. Marcus looks up at Sherlock and groans helplessly, an aching desire crashing through him like with all the finesse of a train, leaving him dizzy. Sherlock makes for a pretty picture; mouth open around sighs and whimpers, eyes glazed over, skin glistening with sweat. His hand clench into tight fists, and he clutches at the sheet, then at Marcus’ shoulders like they are the only thing that keeps him grounded in reality. His nails dig into Marcus’ skin mercilessly, making Marcus wince in pain – but it’s the good kind of pain, the one that serves to remind him that they are here, together, _safe_.

Sherlock’s back arches in a long elegant curve, and he thrusts forward instinctively, pressing into the back of Marcus’ mouth. Marcus’ eyes widen a fraction and he moans around Sherlock. Gasping he adjusts to breathing through his nose as Sherlock’s hands move to his hair and he starts to slowly fuck into the warmth wrapped snugly around his length.  
“Should I stop?” Sherlock asks, scanning Marcus’ face with eyes that are dark with hunger, and when Marcus shakes his head and raises his arm, waving a thumbs’ up in Sherlock’s general direction, the other man laughs, a stuttering and sweet sound. Soon it is replaced by a series of small moans and breathy sighs, and his beautiful violinist hands clench in Marcus’ short hair. He snaps his hips hard and Marcus sees stars. He makes a pleased purr and angles his head back a little, allowing his friend – colleague, lover, what are they now? – to feed more of his dick into his mouth. He licks and sucks and bites carefully into the bulk pushed in between his teeth, as Sherlock fucks his mouth with deep, measured thrusts. Marcus’ fingers flex on Sherlock’ waist as he deliberately quickens his tempo. He wants to hear what Sherlock sounds like when he comes, see how he looks, and right now. Impatience makes his rhythm slobby and just as he is about to throw sophistication to the wind, Sherlock freezes. Then his entire body is racked with shivers and he cries out, loud, his voice pitching high in a way that is music to Marcus’ ears, before he curls in around him and comes down his throat.

Marcus swallows every salty drop, humming in satisfaction, before letting go of Sherlock’s spent cock. He kisses a spot just below Sherlock’s navel and smiles into sweat damp skin as he feels a small tremor vibrating through the detective. Sherlock is bent over him, breathing harshly into his hair, one hand loosely cradling the back of his head and the other a firm and assuring warmth on his shoulder.  
“Marcus”  
His name, exhaled into his ear, an awed whisper, that is also slightly bewildered, like Marcus is a curious puzzle he is trying to solve.  
“Marcus, come here”  
Marcus nods, still slightly dazed, and climbs back into the bed. He slumps down next to Sherlock, and inhales deeply in an attempt to relax himself. He is hard as a rock, erection lying heavy and aching against his stomach, but he pays it no heed. Sherlock does, however. He glances at Marcus’ cock and then his eyes travel up to Marcus’ face, lips quirking up sort of teasingly, almost impish. It’s a good look on him. This contented, playful, compassionate and so very British creature, who wants Marcus, who worries and cares and needs him. He keeps his eyes fixed on Marcus as he situates himself so that he is hovering above Marcus’ lower body, his hands resting on his torso. He smiles at Marcus, a little thing that slips across his face, quick as a thought, before he bends his head and makes a long, wet stripe with his tongue on the underside of Marcus’ cock.

Marcus gasps sharply and throws his head back with a whimper, his eyes falling shut against the delicious sensation travelling up and down his spine, flashing, igniting, like electric impulses. He barely recognizes his own voice as he says, “Sherlock, you don’t have to do this”  
“I want to do this. Now hush”, Sherlock murmurs, and Marcus can hear that smile, the one that leaves him breathless, in his voice. Marcus’ mouth snaps shut at the command. He clenches his jaw, but that doesn’t stop the noises coming from him, and when he finally gives in, unintelligible sounds and half-formed, but heartfelt, words of devotion tumble from his lips, “Sherlock, fuck, you feel so good – ah – you’re perfect”. He bites his lip harshly, it’s either that or screaming – Sherlock has a very talented tongue – and rambles on; “I don’t know what I’d do without you, I thought – “. He gasps as Sherlock takes him deeper.  
“I was scared, God, Sherlock. You, yes – please“, he whimpers and moans Sherlock’s name, and _fuck_ , he is so wrecked. He knows that his emotions spilling all over the place isn’t exactly the sexiest thing, but he can’t seem to stop – it’s like catharsis, he _needs_ this. Because he _was_ afraid, for Sherlock and for himself. There was never a sliver of doubt in his mind that Sherlock would get it right. But what if the squad hadn’t gotten there in time? What if his kidnappers had killed Sherlock anyway, even if he did manage to solve the puzzle? Pulled the trigger, blown that dazzling mind to bits and pieces, dulled the light in those keen eyes, and stopped those busy hands from performing their miracles. Marcus once took a bullet for this man. He would do it ten times over if it meant that the world would get to keep Sherlock Holmes. He flings his arm over his face, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes in a futile attempt to keep the tears at bay. This isn’t good for his image. His body is trembling, chest heaving with messy things that are half whines of “more, more” and half sobs, “fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – I’m ruining it, fuck, this is embarrassing – “

Sherlock looks up at him through hooded eyes before letting go of him. He moves so that he is level with Marcus, arms and legs barring him in, and kisses him. Marcus tastes himself on Sherlock’s tongue.  
He says, slightly chapped lips brushing lightly against Marcus’ cheeks, “it’s alright. You’re alright”. He then takes Marcus in hand and works him slowly, steadily toward completion. He kisses him, again and again and again, on his lips and forehead and cheeks, and he holds him against his chest and he’s right, Marcus thinks, _it’s alright_. When Marcus does come it takes him completely by surprise and he writhes against Sherlock, his muscles cramping up and his eyes widening, the force of his orgasm a roar in his ears. Sherlock is the only thing he sees, the only thing he wants to see.

When reality settles down on him once more, when the aftershock has subsided a little and he is able to feel his body again, he realizes that Sherlock is saying his name. Marcus turns his head to look at him. He must look dazed, because Sherlock’s watches him with fond amusement before taking his hand and kissing the back of it.  
He mumbles soothing things into his ear, while his hand traces lazy pathways up Marcus’ thigh, “I did it, didn’t I? I solved it”  
Marcus laughs, a weird sort of hiccup-y giggle and draws Sherlock closer by the arm until they are lying together side by side, flush against each other. He presses a kiss unto the skin above Sherlock’s temple, making a little huff when tussled hair tickles his nose.  
He says, “You did. I knew you would”  
Sherlock appears taken aback by this confession, scooting away just far enough that he can look at Marcus properly, “you did?”  
“Of course I did. When we met, I suggested you might be wrong about something – what was it, oh, yeah, the location of a murder weapon, and you just looked at me like I was deranged and said, _Detective Bell, don’t be obscene. You have to trust that I know better than you_. I remember thinking you were such an ass”  
“That doesn’t sound like me” Sherlock interjects, but there is a twinkle in his eyes and a smile tugged away cozily into the corner of his mouth, “was I right?”

Marcus slaps him, laughter bubbling in his chest, “I’m not gonna pander to your ego, it’s already the size of Mount Rushmore”  
“Rude, detective Bell” Sherlock says, a rapacious grin on his face as he catches Marcus’ fists in the air, hindering any further assault and using it as leverage to hoist himself on top of Marcus so that they are chest to chest.  
“Oof” Marcus wheezes, then teasingly says, “you’re heavy for a stick insect”  
“How dare you”  
Marcus pushes himself up by his elbow so that he can reach Sherlock’s mouth, connecting them by the lips. He feels good and soft, and when Sherlock promptly opens his mouth and meets Marcus’ tongue with his own, Marcus thinks _this is all I need._  
There is something strangely helpless in Sherlock’s voice as he murmurs, “you can’t do it again”

“Do what?” Marcus asks. His body is starting to grow heavy, his mind drowsy and slow, the worries and fears of the day finally catching up to him in the form of a bone-deep exhaustion. He struggles to stay alert, though, because Sherlock has something on his mind; his eyes shine in a way that worries Marcus a little bit. That is the look Sherlock gets when there is something that is so important to him that he barely knows what to do with himself, and so he is all over the place, a bundle of anxious energy that he can’t find an outlet for. Marcus has seen that look directed at Watson several times, and at Gregson and himself, too. After he was shot and his hand was damaged, Sherlock followed him around with that fever in his eyes for days. When Marcus made it very clear that he wanted to be left alone, he settled for lingering, unhappy glances that Marcus felt like a punch to the throat every time he noticed them.  
“ You can’t get kidnapped”  
“Sherlock...“  
“Yes, I know, you can’t control what happens” Sherlock says, flapping his hand futilely in the air, a gesture of great frustration, “you’re a police detective, danger is part of the job”  
“Sherlock -”  
“I just, “ continues Sherlock, a little stutter in his voice that is so _not_ Sherlock, it’s unsettling, “I’d prefer it if you...”  
“Sherlock” Marcus say, somehow managing to put a thread of urgency into his words that makes Sherlock clamp his mouth shut midsentence, “you know that it wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”  
Because that’s what this is about, Marcus suddenly realizes. Sherlock’s hand tightens around his own.  
“Of course it was” the other man says, “Well, not directly; I didn’t stomp on your rips and put you in the trunk of a car. But if it hadn’t been for me and our partnership – our friendship – it wouldn’t have happened at all”.  
His eyes can’t seem to find Marcus’, instead flickering south to settle somewhere around his jawline. He is studying it like it’s the most interesting example of bone structure he has ever encountered.  
“Maybe not” Marcus concedes, “but – “

He lays a finger on Sherlock’s lips before he has a chance of interrupting, “but, I’d rather have you”  
It takes him a few seconds, and Sherlock’s eyes widening in surprise, before he realizes what his double-crossing, villainous mouth has just said. Completely mortified he adds, “As a friend, I mean. Partner. Yeah, that’s the one”.  
_Nice safe, Marcus_. The voice in his mind is scathingly sarcastic.  
He glances at Sherlock, who is now looking back at him, unflinchingly, and says, voice thin, “that didn’t sound convincing at all, did it?”  
“It did not” Sherlock says, utterly, devastatingly blunt as per usual, “but then again, you told me less than fifteen minutes ago that you are in love with me, so...”  
He looks at Marcus expectantly. Marcus just groans and flumps back onto his pillow, rubbing at his face with his hands in an attempt to clear his mind. Or possibly pretend he isn’t there. It doesn’t work. Sherlock just smiles in that infuriatingly smug way he has, the charming fuck, and that alone makes Marcus’ heart skip several beats.  
“I have zero filter during sex” he says, despairingly, which just makes Sherlock laugh.  
“I thought honesty was supposed to be a valued quality”  
“Well, obviously it’s not, dumbass”  
“I value it”  
“What?”  
A healthy flush warms Sherlock’s cheeks, but he doesn’t look away from Marcus’ face, “honesty. I value it. I value you”  
Marcus’s laughs nervously, and his expression catches in a curious mix of embarrassment and pleasure, “I noticed. You refer to everyone at the station who isn’t me as “Not Bell”. “  
Sherlock harrumphs, somehow managing to make the sound drip with contempt, and says, “Well, if they started doing the jobs better I might make an effort to learn their names”

Marcus snorts a laugh against Sherlock’s shoulder, and mouths at the place where it connects with his elegant line of his neck. Sherlock’s gaze softens visibly as he looks as Marcus. There are little flecks of hazel in Sherlock’s eyes, and an almost invisible shower of delicate freckles create constellations across the arched curves of his cheekbones. They are beautiful. His hand around Marcus’ is warm, his hold strong and sure. The duvet is bunched around his hips, his legs are between Marcus’ own, long and subtle, his kisses are like honey to Marcus’ starving mouth; he is spellbinding, captivating, entrancing, other adjectives that say nothing by themselves, empty flattery, but everything when applied to Sherlock Holmes.  
“I’m so happy you’re here” he confesses, fascinated by the way Sherlock’s smile, fresh and lovely, makes him look years younger – more hopeful, less like someone who has seen some of the worst things mankind has to offer – _loved_ some of the worse things mankind has to offer. Sherlock is kindness wrapped in acerbic wit and polished steel draped in skin and enigma. He feels so much and loves so much. He is tender the same way a new wound is tender. _A wonderful thing_.

“Me too” Sherlock says. His eyebrows are screwed together in concentration as he just _thinks_ in that very Sherlock Holmes way of his. Marcus can almost see the gears and cogs working in his brain through the reflection of himself in Sherlock’s eyes.  
“Marcus – “  
“Sherlock – “  
“You go first”  
Marcus breathes in deep, hoping to God that his words will come out strong, confident, rather than squeaky with nerves. His hands find Sherlock’s hips, and he draws him nearer to him. Sherlock’s weight is a comfort. He feels the detective’s body coming to life above him, his cock stirring lazily against Marcus’ own at the accidental friction.  
“I am in love with you, you know”  
Not squeaky at all, not even a little bit. Good. He is a sort of terrified, but that’s okay, because no matter how Sherlock wants him, it is enough. As long as he is there, in Marcus’ life, that will always be enough. Marcus realized that today. All it took was a life-and-death situation for him to understand that though he wants to be another sort of special to Sherlock (has wanted to be so for a long time), he will also be happy with being his friend. Because friendship with Sherlock is a precious thing, a rare and good an al-encompassing thing. It is a privilege. And so he adds, though the sentence feels reminiscent of a shard of something very sharp and hurtful piercing his stomach, “you don’t have to say it back, or anything. I just wanted you to know. After everything that happened today, I wasn’t gonna just... I had to tell you”

Sherlock ducks his head and kisses him impossibly gently. Marcus had always imagined that kisses from Sherlock would be all teeth and fierce things, like the man himself. They aren’t. They are sweet and unassuming. Or maybe that’s just with Marcus. He wants it all, though. He wants everything Sherlock has to give. Sherlock rolls off of Marcus – the latter mourning the loss of his closeness – and lies on his side next to him. Silence stretches between them, but it’s a good kind of quiet, a quiet that calms Marcus’ fluttering heart and settles in his bones.  
“It’s good that you did” Sherlock says. It only occurs to Marcus that he has been averting his gaze when Sherlock touches two fingers to his jaw and carefully tips his face so that their eyes find each other again. He fixes him with a intent look, solemnity darkening his eyes, and hooks his arm around him in an easy embrace. His fingertip draws small patterns into his back, a spot just below his ribcage. All of Marcus’ attention zeroes in on those fleeting little touches.  
“It is?”

Marcus’ throat has gone dry and he swallows heavily. His words resonate in the hollow of his chest.  
Sherlock nods. He slides one hand into Marcus’ hair and gently threads it through the dark tresses, making Marcus hum softly in pleasure and turn into the touch. Arousal furls in his gut, and he cants his hips against Sherlock in a way that’s almost tentative compared to the eagerness he showed just moments ago. Sherlock meets him readily, his eyes flashing as Marcus’ breath hitches. His gaze roams greedily across Marcus’ body, and Marcus feels it as acutely as if the he had been touching him.  
“I – “ Sherlock struggles with the words, which is unusual enough to get Marcus’ attention away from the attractive slope of his neck and the slight, but firm, contours of muscles carrying deceptive undercurrents of power in his shoulders, “I would like to pursue a relationship with you. If you are so inclined, that is. I won’t promise I will be good at it, but I will certainly try. For you”  
Marcus is sure that if he somehow manages to smile any wider his face will split in two. He presses their mouths together inelegantly, and when Sherlock parts his lips and meets his searching tongue with his own in initiation of a sweet dance, Marcus might just pass out from sheer happiness. God, he’s such a sab.  
“You sure?” he asks, when he has to pull back, his lungs yearning for air, “You’ve had one hell of a shock today, and – “

“Marcus” Sherlock interjects, “I’m a grown man. I assure you that I am one hundred percent certain”  
Marcus’ hearts flutters and he feels light-headed for just a few seconds. Then he grabs Sherlock by the ass and hauls him close to his chest. He pinches one of his cheeks, teasing a very undignified shriek out of Sherlock. Sherlock quickly retaliates by clasping his hand on the sides of Marcus’ face and crashing their lips together. He then tweaks one of Marcus’ nipples and Marcus _sees stars_ and is so in love. He tilts his head back on the pillow and moans softly, biting his lip. Sherlock’s erection is heavy and red against him, and Marcus laughs shakily, “Well, part of you certainly is grown”. He gestures to Sherlock’s crotch and winks at him. Sherlock just rolls his eyes halfway to Heaven and then all the way back.  
“Don’t be crude”  
“You like it” Marcus says, smiling.  
Sherlock exhales on a longsuffering sigh, but there’s a laugh folded into his words, “just kiss me”  
And Marcus does.


End file.
